The View from Mount Joy Read Free Page B

hockey program they’ve got up there. Anyway, you played some good D. Look forward to having you on our team.” His thumb wandered around his jawbone and then back again. “You are planning to play, aren’t you?”
    My head bounced in a nod.
    “Careful, kid, I don’t want you to throw your neck out,” said the history teacher, giving his sideburns one last scratch. “Now why don’t you get an eraser and wipe off the blackboard? Then give me twenty push-ups.”
    Seeing the expression on my face, he laughed. “Kidding. Just kidding. At least about the push-ups.”
    My stock got a real boost when word got around that I was a hockey player. Blake Erlandsson asked me to join some other players at his house, “to talk about taking the Bulls to state this year.”
    My mother couldn’t have been more excited if I’d won a National Merit Scholarship.
    “The team captain, huh? What’s he like? Would you like me to bake some of my brownies to bring over? Or maybe some Rice Krispies bars? Or maybe we should—”
    “Ma, relax. It’s no big deal. I’m just getting together with some guys to talk hockey.”
    My offhandedness did not erase the flush on my mother’s face or her smile, and she stood on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek.
    “I’m just glad you’re making friends is all,” she said.
    “Making friends?” I said. “Ma, I can’t
not
make friends. Everyone wants a piece of Joe Andreson.”
             
    When Blake Erlandsson’s mother opened the door, a blast of perfume and hairspray singed my nasal hairs.
    “Hi,” she said, in a voice that sounded like we were meeting at a bar rather than at the threshold of a door whose welcome mat was in the shape of a sunflower. Her face was sparkly with makeup: her eyes were ringed in blue iridescence, her lips were a frosted pink, and even her rouge glimmered. Her platinum-blond hair was piled up on top of her head in loopy curls, and she wore a lime-green minidress with fishnet stockings and white boots.
    Hey, baby,
I wanted to say, but stuck with a safer greeting.
    “Hi, I’m Joe.”
    “Of course you are,” she said, taking me by the arm and pulling me into the house. “And I’m Mrs. Erlandsson, although I like Blake’s friends to call me Mimi.”
    “And I’m Bob,” said a voice, interrupting my fantasy of being led up the stairs and into a bedroom by the wild, frosty-faced Mimi. “Blake’s father.”
    The man who stuck out his hand had the same bright Partridge Family/Brady Bunch fashion sense as his wife; he wore plaid flares and a polyester shirt and combed his longish hair the way his son did—parted on the side with a big swoop of bangs.
    “Uh…pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking the man’s hand.
    “So you’re going to give the Bulls a little more—” He didn’t say so much as grunt what I was going to give the Bulls, punching a fist in the air.
    “Bob’s a big hockey fan,” explained Mimi. Having abandoned my arm, she took her husband’s, and he turned his face to hers and they kissed.
    “Joe,” said Blake, bounding into the entryway. “You’re here.”
    I held out my hands as if to say,
Ta-da!
    “Come on downstairs. We’ve been waiting for you, man.”
    “Nice to meet you,” I said to the real live TV sitcom couple, following Blake down the shag-carpeted stairs and into the rec room.
    There were a half dozen guys sitting on Naugahyde bar stools and beanbag chairs. Blake pointed to each one with his can of pop as he said his name.
    “That’s Jeff Lindaner, Brad Wilkerson, Charlie Olsen, Garret Mays, Tom Zebriski, and Phil Lamereau.” He nodded at the smallest guy. “Roll the film, will you, Wilkey?”
    The lights went out, and everyone faced the small screen set up in front of the fireplace. Not having a place to sit, I leaned against the paneled wall.
    “This is our game against Roosevelt for the city championship—Well, to get to the city championship,” said Blake as a grainy black-and-white film began to